Opinion Polls - Libyan Style

.

Muammar Ghadaffi was a romantic at heart. There are still some signs of this: When he travels to other countries, he holds official meetings in a tent and is guarded by a troop of virgin female soldiers. However, his romantic side was even more obvious back when we lived in Libya. Here's one example of it.

Like most Arabs, Ghadaffi had read and was captivated by the stories Scheherezade told in the “Arabian Nights”. He was particularly struck by the story in which she tells how the Caliph of Baghdad used to travel around the city in disguise to find out what people were thinking and saying about him and his government.

So in the early 1970s Ghadaffi started appearing in cafes and restaurants, completely wrapped up in a cloak. He would sit quietly in a corner, listening to what people were saying. He thought he was incognito but, in reality, he was fooling nobody. This gave rise to lots of scenes that played out along these lines.

Ali: Salaam aleikum. I'll have a Kitty Cola. So what’s new then?

Barman: Aleikum salaam. Oh, nothing much.

Ali: Is that Muammar sitting over there in the corner?

Barman: Yes. Third time this week.

Ali: What does he want?”

Barman: The usual. Wants to know what people think about that new law he’s going to introduce.

Ali: The one saying all schoolchildren will have to wear only traditional Libyan clothes?

Barman: That’s the one.

Ali: Bloody stupid idea. (Raising his voice.) Bloody stupid idea, if you ask me.

The man in the cloak gets up and walks out, writing in a small notebook and mumbling, “So that’s 227 against and …”

The next day Ghadaffi would appear on TV. If his research showed that people liked the new law he was considering, he would say, "Hello, my brothers and sisters. As you've probably heard by now, I have decided to pass a law requiring all children to wear traditional Libyan clothes when they attend school."

Of course, if he had heard a lot of criticism of his proposal, he would give a very different speech. “Hello, my brothers and sisters. I have heard that some people are saying I want to make all of our schoolchildren wear traditional clothes. What a crazy idea! I would never do such a stupid thing. This is just another filthy lie spread by the Zionist warmongers and their imperialist masters in Washington and London ...”

A Very Naughty Man

.

For most of our first two years in Tripoli, we lived in an old Italian villa on a farm in the village of Fernaj. It was a beautiful house with high ceilings and with stunning marble floors. The front porch was surrounded by oleander and jasmine bushes, and we could pick lemons for our tea from trees in the front garden.

However, once Sue was pregnant, we decided to move to a newer house in town. We loved the old house but it was a little remote. Plus it had some irritating quirks. For example, the wiring wasn’t perfect and so whenever you turned on a tap, your fingers tingled with 110 volts of electricity. While this didn’t bother us too much, we felt it wasn’t ideal for a baby.

The new house was owned by a Libyan who also owned dozens of other houses as well as some apartment blocks. Unlike Donald Trump, he didn’t flaunt his wealth. In fact, the first time he came to visit us, I thought he was a tramp. I think it was the way his pants were held up with a piece of dirty old string that confused me.

We happily paid the rent of 120 dinars a month (about $400 US) for the first year. Then Ghadaffi passed a law cutting all rents by 75%. So ours went down to 30 dinars. We were very pleased. The landlord was not and he came rushing around to see us.

Landlord: Did you hear? That madman Ghadaffi has cut all rents by 25%.

Me: Ridiculous, isn’t it? Actually, it’s 75%.

Landlord: This is very bad for me.

Me: I sympathize. But what can we do? It’s the law. So I’ll make out your cheque for 30 dinars.

Landlord: Well, there is a way around it. Every month you can write me the rent cheque for 30 dinars. Then you can give me 90 dinars in cash. Like a present.

Me: I’d really love to do that. Nothing would make me happier. Unfortunately, though, I’ll have to pass. You know how the government watches foreigners like me. I daren’t risk it. Sorry.

Landlord: Oh, that Ghadaffi! He only cares about the poor. He never thinks about the rich. He is a very naughty man.

God is Great

.

Preface

To understand this story you have to know that, in Libya, women who marry keep their maiden name.

Sue and I got into our VW to drive home after work. The passenger side front door of our Beetle tended to stick and so I reached across Sue to pull the door shut. A policeman saw this and ran across the road to our car. “Stop,” he yelled. “Stop. You are under arrest.”

We weren’t very concerned, because we’d already been stopped or arrested by the police on dozens of occasions. However, we were curious about what we were supposed to have done wrong this time.

It turned out that the policeman had misinterpreted my reaching across Sue to close the door. He thought we were making out in the car and so he was arresting us for public immorality.

Luckily, it didn’t take very long for us to convince him that we were a respectable married couple. To prove our status, I handed him our ID cards. An interesting scene followed.

He looked at my ID. “So you are English. And your name is Mohamed.”

“That’s right,” I confirmed.

“You are Muslim.”

“Sorry. No. I’m Christian.”

He looked puzzled. “You are English and Christian but your name is Mohamed?”

“Yes.”

“An Englishman who is not Muslim but has a Muslim name. This is amazing. El hamdulillah! Praise be to God!”

He took Sue’s ID. “She is English but her name is Susan Mohamed. Ah, so she is Muslim.”

“No. She’s a Christian, too.”

He looked puzzled. Then the puzzled look changed to one of comprehension. “Ah. You are related. She is your sister.”

“No. We’re not related. She’s my wife.”

“Your wife?” He was totally stunned. “So you are both called Mohamed but you are both Christians. And you both lived in England, where you met each other and got married.”

“Yes.”

Faced with evidence of what seemed to him to be a supernatural string of coincidences, he responded with a reverent “El hamdullillah!" Then he handed back our IDs, saluted me and watched us drive away.

What a great story he would have to tell at the mosque on Friday!

Closing time, Egyptian style

.

On one of my trips to Cairo, Colin Davies took me to a goodbye party that he had organized for David Lamb, the eight-time Pulitzer Prize nominated journalist. (How's that for name dropping?)

The party consisted of a few of us sitting around a fire and having a picnic in the desert outside Cairo. It was quite a dramatic setting, particularly as we watched night fall over the nearby Pyramids.

David was in good form, fueled by several glasses of Canadian Club whisky. His voice raspy as always from chainsmoking, he was well into one of his war stories. I think it was the one about how he came up with the name “Hamburger Hill” to describe a particularly vicious battle that he witnessed in Vietnam.

Suddenly, a truck appeared out of the darkness. Several Egyptian soldiers surrounded our little group. Their officer came up and asked what we were doing. Colin explained.

“I’m sorry,” said the officer, “but you must leave.”

Colin asked him why.

“Because the desert is closed. It’s after 10:00 p.m. and the desert closes at 10:00. You must all leave now.”

Who would ever have thought that they closed the Sahara Desert at 10:00 every night.